


It's A Wonderful Life

by Mara_DragonMaster



Category: White Collar
Genre: Christmas, Death of Mom, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Funeral, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss of Parent(s), Mourning, Protective Peter, sad neal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 05:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19078762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mara_DragonMaster/pseuds/Mara_DragonMaster
Summary: Neal is full of excitement on Friday, ready to spend Christmas with his mother. On Monday he returns to work with a dead look in his eyes. Peter and Elizabeth try to solve the puzzle, hoping to save Christmas, and end up saving a young man as well.





	1. White Christmas

"Well, another mortgage fraud successfully brought to its inevitable conclusion."

Peter glanced up as he closed the folder, his eyebrows raised. "Colonel Mustard in the Library?"

"I wish." Neal leaned back in his chair with a sigh. The week had consisted of nothing more than cases of insurance fraud, cases of such simplicity that his ever-active mind was practically clawing at the inside of his head in frenzied boredom. He moved. He shifted. He fidgeted. He looked out of the window longingly. He built paper swans; there was a flock of them roosting on top of Peter's file cabinets. Peter had put up with it, had even been slightly amused by it at times. It was like watching a schoolboy trying to do homework while all of the other kids got to play.

As they walked through the offices towards the elevator, Peter noticed an unusual amount of energy in his companion. There was an extra bounce in his step, a twinkle in his eye, and a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. His silly fedora was even set at an extra jaunty angle.

"What is with you?" Peter asked, waiting as Neal pushed the elevator button.

"What? Nothing."

"Come on." Peter tipped his head, his mouth widening into a knowing smile, his eyes narrowing. "What is it?"

Neal's face pulled into a momentary mask of innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about." He said, his blue eyes very wide as he side-glanced at his partner.

"Neal…"

"I think you're paranoid."

"What're you up to?"

"You should really talk to Elizabeth about it."

Peter sighed. Glancing at Neal from the corner of his eye, he turned to face the elevator, his hands in his pockets. "Well, whatever it is…"

"No lying, no cheating. Nothing illegal." Neal promised; his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Just some good old fashioned Christmas spirit."

"Ohhhh…" Peter's eyebrows rose. "Anyone special? Or June, and her double-chocolate brownies?"

"June's left to spend the holiday's with family."

"Ahh. So someone special."

There was that enigmatic smile, the sidelong glance, and the rocking back on the heels. Peter's eyes narrowed; the kid was more pleased than usual.

"Someone extra special?"

Neal grinned. "We go way back." He said softly.

~`~'~

Two Weeks Ago:

"We're sorry. The number you have reached is no longer in service."

Neal listened to the message in disbelief. It had to be a mistake. He knew that number by heart, and not once had there ever not been an answer to its rings. Frowning he disconnected the call, slipped another quarter into the pay phone, and tried again. "Must have punched it in wrong." He muttered.

"We're sorry. The number you have reached is no longer…"

The crash of the phone in its cradle was enough to garner looks from several people. Neal stared at the phone for a moment, then sighed and turned away, his calculating mind already whirling. Maybe he could find a minute away from Peter at the office; running a search on an Evelyn Caffrey couldn't be too hard. And if Peter did catch him, what was he going to do? Tell Neal to stay away from his own mother?

The minute alone presented itself sooner than he had expected. As Peter left his office in answer to Hughes's beckoning finger, Neal waited until he was out of sight and then quickly seated himself in Peter's chair. As the keyboard clicked beneath his fingers the thought crossed his mind that he could have asked Peter to run the search, instead of sneaking around. His musing was cut short by a soft beep. He blinked; that had taken less time than he had expected.

His heart began to beat faster. Grabbing a notepad and a pen he hurriedly wrote down the information, barely closing his search and returning to his chair before Peter walked in, armed with a new case file. If Peter noticed Neal's slight agitation, he did not show it.

~`~'~

Present:

Neal pulled out his key and opened the front door of June's house. With the bustling older lady and her granddaughter gone, the house seemed big and empty, but Neal hardly noticed. A package was held under one arm, and a small bag hung from his hand, carrying a card and a carton of eggnog. Closing the door behind him Neal checked his watch, noting the hour with some dismay, and then he took the stairs two at a time.

~`~'~

One Week & Five Days Ago:

Once again, Neal stood before the pay phone, holding the receiver in a slightly unsteady hand. He could use his cell phone; but then Peter always checked his calls the way he checked his tracker, and Neal rebelled against this being just another piece of his open-book life. This was personal. The quarters were loud in the snowy quiet, and the rings that followed the dialing of the new number seemed to take forever. After the third one, however, there was a faint click.

"Hello?"

Neal's heart did a flip in his chest. He inhaled sharply. "Mom?"

There was a pause. "Neal?!" The soft, feminine voice was suddenly filled with warmth and surprise and delight. "Neal! Oh my gosh, is it really you?!"

"Hey," He smiled, and leaned against the solid form of the pay phone. "Mom. Yeah, it's me. How have you been?"

"How have I been?! I've been fine– I just moved, someplace a little smaller; you know, fits me better. But what about you? I haven't heard from you in so long!"

"I know, I'm sorry about that. Things have been a little crazy." Resting his free arm on top of the pay phone, Neal closed his eyes. "I'm– I broke out, Mom."

"What– you what?"

"It's okay." Neal hurried to reassure her. "I had a good reason, but– it's a long story. Anyway, the FBI agreed not to send me back, and in return I have to work for them for the next four years. I'm now an official FBI consultant."

"Ooh," her tone had the perfect amount of motherly appreciation. "That sounds important." She also, it seemed, had chosen to ignore the reason her son was working for the FBI, something which Neal was grateful for. "And how is Kate? Are things going well between you two?"

At that Neal dropped his gaze to his shoes, scuffing a leather toe in the snow. "No. Um, Kate left, Mom. She's gone."

There was a quiet intake of breath. "Oh, honey. I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"It's…"

"A long story. That's okay, you can tell me about it later. Oh, Neal, it's so good to hear your voice again!"

The warmth in her words made him close his eyes and smile; just hearing her brought back tons of good memories he had somehow forgotten. He swallowed. "It's good to hear you too, Mom."

"What are you doing for Christmas? Can you make it up?"

Neal felt his stomach clench. He hated telling her about the tracker; one more failure he had to admit to, one more black mark for her to deliberately ignore, just so she could still, in her own heart, look upon her son with pride. Still he told her, his words faltering and hesitant and full of apology. There was no recrimination in her reply. Only understanding and joyful planning.

"I am leading the Christmas choir at Church, but I have an assistant who is more than capable of taking over for me. Now, where do you live?"

Neal gave her the address. "Mom," he ventured. "Will you…?"

"I'll be there the Friday before, don't you worry." She assured him; he could swear he heard laughter in her voice. "We must carry on tradition, mustn't we? You must have a tree!"

~`~'~

Present:

The card and gift he hid under his bed, and stowed the eggnog in the fridge. Glancing around he checked to make sure that he had set out blankets and a pillow on the couch for himself, and that he had remembered to change the sheets of his bed for his mom. Satisfied that all was ready, he hurried to shower and change.

~`~'~

The Week Before:

Despite the influx of torturously boring cases, all involving mortgage fraud, the week passed quickly. Every day after work Neal stopped at the pay phone next to his favorite coffee shop, and he and his mom would talk for hours. She was thrilled that he seemed to be getting along so well, with a nice place to live and a steady job with the FBI; it was her opinion that his skills were put to their best use there, having such unique and genius abilities as he did that allowed him to shed light on the darkest, shadiest clues. Of course she asked what he was doing art-wise, and he admitted, to her disappointment, that as of late he had done nothing. Evelyn had chided him gently, and encouraged him to start painting again. Didn't he remember how he used to keep a painting journal where he painted portraits of his friends, and his dad and herself? He should do that again.

"Who knows," she joked as an afterthought. "In a hundred years, someone may discover your box of old journals, and just like that you'll be famous!"

"I'll be dead in a hundred years."

"Honey, everyone knows you have to die to become famous." She quipped.

The story of Kate was briefly touched on, of the man with the ring, and the attempts made to seize his stuff, and how when all was said and done, he and Kate had looked at each other, and realized that whatever they had was long gone. Kate left.

Evelyn had moved from the big, old house into something more compact and with less stairs. Neal felt a twinge of sadness that he would never see the house he had grown up in again, but his mother assured him that she had kept all of the furniture and pictures, and that except for size, you could hardly tell one house from the other. Holmes, the grey-striped cat, was as alive and well as ever. Though he did miss the old thrill of the mouse-hunt, as the new home sheltered none of the furry creatures.

Talking with his mother, Neal felt himself growing whole again. A piece that had been missing, since this whole fiasco began over four years ago, was finally found. He would often close his eyes while he listened to her talk, and he could picture her, sitting at the small kitchen table with Holmes in her lap, her grey and blond hair pulled back, wearing a white apron and drinking a cup of tea. His grandmother's English habits had carried over to her daughter, in more ways than one.

Soon he would see her again, her grey eyes sparkling warmly at him, and they would put up the Christmas tree and eat popcorn and drink eggnog, and she would turn on the old Christmas music, and he would waltz with her like his dad used to.

Neal smiled, and listened to her chatter.

~`~'~

Present:

Neal rubbed his hair with a towel, and checked his watch again. She should be arriving any minute now; his mother had never been anything but punctual. Throwing on a clean pair of slacks and a shirt he went out to his small kitchenette and pulled out a bowl and the brand new popcorn maker he had purchased just that week. Then he checked his watch again.

Any time.

Crossing to the living room he checked to make sure that he had remembered to rent It's A Wonderful Life. There it was, sitting on the coffee table.

With nothing to do but wait, Neal settled for pacing, his body thrumming with nervous excitement. Four years. Over four years since he had seen his mother. Had she changed much? Had he changed?

His cell phone rang. It was a number he did not recognize. He flipped the phone open.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is Neal Caffrey available?"

For some reason, he felt his stomach clench in foreboding. "This is."

"Mr. Caffrey, this is Dr. Webster from Westchester Hospital." There was a slight pause. "I'm calling about your mother."

As Neal listened, he felt like the bottom had dropped out of the world, and he was falling into whatever abysmal pit lay beneath. The doctor's words were chosen with care, giving the facts while maintaining a note of sympathy and compassion. Baking cookies. Heart attack.

The popcorn maker sat on the counter, cold, and forgotten.


	2. Christmases When You Were Mine

Monday morning dawned cold and bright, a bitter wind whistling along the New York streets and blowing up little flurries of snow. Peter was glad to reach the warmth of his office, sighing as turned down his collar and removed his coat. He was early, wanting to get through the day's work in record time so that he could be home by six, exactly. Elizabeth had been planning their tree-trimming evening for a month; he knew better than to miss it.

To his surprise, as he approached his glass-walled office, he saw that he was not the earliest person there. Neal was sitting in his customary chair, already elbow deep in paperwork, the skin between his eyes pinched together in a frown of concentration. When Peter entered, however, he glanced up, then returned to the file in his hands.

Slipping his coat onto the back of his chair, Peter eyed Neal curiously. "Good morning, Neal." He greeted, sitting down.

"Morning." The response was mumbled.

Peter paused in his reach for the computer's power button. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." The eyes were a little too wide as they glanced up, the answer a little too quick. "Yeah, everything's fine. I'm good."

"Uh huh." Peter nodded. As his computer brightened into life, he leaned back. "You… have a good weekend?"

"Mm hm."

"Do anything special?"

"Nope. Just hung out, you know, took it easy."

Neal wasn't meeting his gaze, hunched a little too far over the pile of files. Peter dared to venture a little further. "Did the someone special…"

Neal sighed in exasperation. "They couldn't make it." He said, standing. "I'm going to get some coffee. You want some?"

"No, thanks." Peter watched with narrowed eyes as Neal strode from the office, and headed, not for the door and the little coffee shop he loved so much, but for the communal office coffee-pot. Leaning his elbows on the desk, Peter pressed his fingertips together. The ruined weekend had obviously been a blow to the ex-conman; he could only hope it hadn't ruined the rest of the week, too.

The rest of the day Neal said very little, burning through the pile of cases as though he had the devil himself after him. Peter didn't complain; he might be able to go home early as a result. Elizabeth would be surprised and delighted. By the end of the day, however, he was beginning to get concerned. Neal's mood, which Peter sometimes called 'petulant' or 'sulking', had not improved and had at times bordered on anger; usually at Peter, who had periodically kept asking questions. At five their work was done, much to Peter's relief. As he turned off his computer and slid on his coat, he noticed that Neal had not moved.

"Hey," Peter jostled his shoulder. "Work day's done; we get to go home early."

"Yeah, I think I'm going to stay a while longer." Neal answered, his dark brows furrowed as he scanned yet another file.

"Why?" Peter asked, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "This will still be here tomorrow. Come on, it's Christmas week. Go home. Decorate your tree. Drink some eggnog."

Neal slapped the folder onto the desk and looked at Peter in frustration. "Why don't you mind your own business?"

The agent froze, staring.

Neal continued. "What makes you think I have time for that kind of thing, anyway?"

"Come on," Peter didn't roll his eyes, but the temptation was so strong. Neal Caffrey, hopeless romantic, against all things Christmas?

"Ex-con, Peter. We felons don't have time for tinsel and carols." Neal's reproach became a mumble as he returned to his work. His expression betrayed his embarrassment at his outburst.

Studying the man before him, Peter decided to let it slide. For now. "Okay," he said, and nodded, clapping a hand on Neal's shoulder. "See you tomorrow."

As he waited for the elevator, Peter stole a quick glance up at his office. Neal leaned back in his chair, wearily running a hand through his hair, pressing his fingers to his eyes.

As predicted, Elizabeth was thrilled when Peter walked in their front door at five-thirty. A tree was waiting outside the door for him to bring in, and boxes of ornaments were carefully set in the living room. Slipping an arm around his shoulders, Elizabeth kissed him, her eyes shining.

"You're home early!"

"Wouldn't miss this evening for the world." Peter said, returning the kiss.

She smiled, and headed for the table. As she poured them each a glass of wine, she glanced over her shoulder. "How was work today?"

"Good; you know, boring, but…" Peter pulled a face as he hung up his coat. "Neal was in fine sorts today."

"Oh?" her brows pulled together. "He tell you what was wrong?"

"No," Peter sighed, stepping up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist. Her hair tickled his nose, and he breathed in. "Though he hinted that his weekend hadn't gone as planned."

"Ah," turning in his arms, Elizabeth frowned in sympathy. "The someone special?"

"They didn't show."

"Ouch!"

"Yeah." Peter bit his lip, thinking. "But– nah, there's more to it than that."

"Stop investigating." Elizabeth told him, the corner of her mouth twitching up. "You're home now; you're my husband, not an agent. He'll be better tomorrow. You'll see."

Looking down at his beautiful wife, Peter smiled. "Yeah." Kissing her, he brushed the end of her nose with his lips. "Want me to bring in the tree?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay."

~`~'~

Neal pulled the collar of his coat tight around his neck, shivering as a blast of cold air drove against him. It was far too late to be out walking the snowy New York streets. Quickly he unlocked the door and stepped inside, brushing the snow from his shoulders. Slowly he ascended the stairs, one at a time, sliding his hand along the railing. His cell phone beeped at him; three unread messages. It was someone else from the hospital, he was sure, trying to get a hold of him, wondering if they could connect him with a support group, wondering also if he was going to contact a funeral home, or if he needed someone to do it for him.

Neal ignored the persistent beep. His phone's battery would die soon enough, and then he wouldn't have to worry about ignoring calls anymore.

For now, all he wanted to do was hide. So he warmed a frozen meal (Mozzie would be horrified), opened a bottle of wine, and sat down on the couch. With a click of a button the familiar opening scene to It's A Wonderful Life flickered on the tv; he had rented it. He might as well get his three dollars worth.

When the movie ended, Neal was curled on his side, an afghan wrapped around him, his slow even breathing the only other sound besides the white noise now coming from the tv.

When he woke several hours later, the room was dark, the pale light of the tv glowing ghost-like before him. It was silent.

Neal spent the rest of the night staring up at the ceiling.

~`~'~

Peter approached the office slowly, eyeing the drawn blinds with trepidation. He didn't like not being able to see inside his own office, especially when he wasn't sure what to expect from his partner.

To his surprise, the office was empty. There were perfectly stacked piles of folders on his desk, with a note on the top that said 'Done. NC'. Frowning, Peter picked the note up, and then glanced at the massive stack and shook his head. How late had that crazy man stayed to get all that done? Tossing the note onto his desk, Peter shook his head again. "Neal."

"Peter."

The agent turned quickly, even as he chastised himself. It wasn't the first time Neal's cat-like walk had made his approach undetectable. Schooling his features to reflect none of his startle, Peter took in his partner's appearance. Neal was clean, his hair perfectly combed, his suit impeccable, and by his expression his mood was considerably improved. There were lines of weariness around his eyes, though Peter wasn't surprised since the pile of folders suggested Neal had stayed at the office far into the morning hours.

Neal held up two hot coffees; his expression became apologetic. "Brought you coffee."

Peter eyed the cup and its bearer, then his mouth quirked up in a smile. "You're a life saver." He said, taking the offered cup and moving around to his desk chair. "Since June left to visit family I've been missing her Italian Roast."

He was rewarded with a half-smile. It quickly disappeared, though, and Neal seated himself across from Peter, his posture awkward. "I wanted to apologize." He said. "For my behavior yesterday."

"Hm? What behavior?" Peter decided to play the innocent card.

Neal's eyes narrowed knowingly, and he set his cup on the desk. "You know what I mean. I was rude and disrespectful towards you, and while there were extenuating circumstances that warranted my anger it in no way exonerates me from taking it out on you. I'm sorry."

Peter nodded, turning on his computer. Neal apologizing; and without a nudge from Elizabeth. He glanced up. "You are forgiven." His stoic face broke into a smile, and there was a twinkle in his eye. "Now, genius, since you did all of our work for the day last night, what do you think we're going to do now?"

Neal glanced at the pile of folders, his eyes large as his mind ran through what Peter had said. "Um…" He glanced back at Peter.

Peter folded his hands, and stared.

Neal pointed over his shoulder. "I'm going to go find some work for us."

Peter nodded; and smiled.

The rest of the day went surprisingly well, with no major cases and no snags or problems in the minor cases they worked on. Peter silently sent a prayer of thanks up to heaven; God must be smiling on them because it was Christmas week.

There were times that he still felt this cloud over his partner, though; times he almost thought the smile and the easy expression were just a mask. Once, when he was down getting coffee, he had looked up in time to see Neal's face held in his hands as he sat in Peter's office. When he raised his head he looked exhausted, drained, and Peter knew it wasn't from the late night. He had seen Neal after a late night before; this was not it. Yet to any subtle question Neal just shrugged it off and said he was fine, simply tired from working late. The unhappiness in his eyes belied the smile; but Peter let it go. He knew better than anyone that it was impossible to make Neal confess anything, short of holding a gun to his head. Peter really didn't think this situation called for such a dramatic act.

At the end of the day, Neal stood and gathered his coat and hat in tandem with Peter. His movements were slow, but he smiled and slid his hands into his pockets and followed Peter to the elevator with a brisk step, peppering him with such questions as "Did you get me anything for Christmas?" and "Well, what did you get Elizabeth?" Resisting the urge to cuff the young pup on the back of the head, Peter settled for scowling at him in exasperation. He pointed a finger at Neal as they entered the elevator.

"Stop it." He said, and raised his eyebrow when Neal opened his mouth. "Stop it."

Neal sighed, and watched the doors close. He was silent. For a moment. "Is it breakable?"

Heaving a breath, Peter glared at him. "For the last time, I'm not telling you what I got you for Christmas, if, in fact, I got you anything."

Neal looked back with big, innocent eyes. "What? I was asking about Elizabeth's gift."

"Ah." Peter narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He stared straight ahead at the elevator doors, intent on ignoring the only other passenger. He saw Neal, from the corner of his eye, make a face of unhappy defeat, and then he heard him sigh. The corner of Peter's mouth turned up. "It's shiny."

Neal looked at him quickly.

"El's been eyeing this necklace for six months; she has no idea she's getting it." Peter's smile was full-fledged now in self-satisfaction and anticipation. He rarely got to surprise his wife, and was enjoying every minute of it.

Neal's laughter was contagious. "Peter, I'm impressed!"

"Thank you." Peter tipped his head, accepting the praise.

"Is there something I've been wanting that you're getting me but pretending not to get me, too?"

The narrowed eyes sent Neal walking quickly through the elevator's opening doors. "Nope. I guess not." He said under his breath.

~`~'~

The house was just as dark and cold as he had feared it would be. With no maid, no June, no Mozzie, the rooms seemed hollow and dead. Neal hurried up the stairs to his own set of rooms, desperate to turn on some lights and maybe a radio, or the tv, anything to disrupt the silence and the dark.

It worked; for about an hour. Then Neal put away his reading, set aside his glass, and looked around. There was nothing to do. He considered calling Mozzie, but the strange little man was in Montana visiting his own mother and putting up her tree, while she made a spiked punch and watched The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. Neal stood and strode over to a bookshelf, and began to run his long fingers along the spines of the movies and CDs stacked upon the shelves. Nothing appealed to him. He had heard it all before, watched it all before. With a sigh of frustration he went to the couch and picked up the remote, turning on the tv. As he flipped the channels and found nothing of value, he began to clench his teeth. He needed distraction; he had managed to keep himself distracted for almost four days, keeping his thoughts at bay, but in the silence and isolation in the big house they were starting to creep back, despite his struggles.

Restless, he walked over to a small desk where his phone sat, dead as a doornail. He absently picked it up, flipped it open, then closed it and tossed it back onto the desk with a huff. Then his eyes fell on the calendar. Tuesday was circled: 'Bake cookies with Mom.'

Neal stared. He remembered her excitement the last time they had talked. She had been telling him all about the plans she had made, and asked if there was somewhere they could attend a Christmas Eve service, within his two miles. He told her about the small Church just a block from where he lived.

"Wonderful. I do hope they have a choir; I so love choirs."

"Do you still play piano, Mom?"

"Of course I do; as often as I can. It was a chore, but I did manage to move the Spinet from the old place to my new living room. Do you still play, sweetheart?"

"Very rarely. Only twice since I got out, both times when June wasn't around."

"Oh, for shame, Neal!" There was laughter. "Well, perhaps we can play a grand duet together when I come down. Oh, and before I forget, do you have any baking supplies? No, no, of course not. Silly me! What am I thinking. Don't worry, I'll bring everything. We'll have Date Balls, Spicy Fruit Nuggets, Currant Cookies, Snicker doodles, and Molasses Cookies."

"No Cherry Kisses?" He teased.

She huffed on the other end. "Of course not! You can't have Valentine cookies for Christmas! Silly boy."

Neal came out of the memory, still staring at the calendar. His eyes felt hot. Turning quickly he strode to the other side of the room, and then he turned and began to circle the room, his hands clenching and unclenching. He went one way, reached his destination, realized he had nothing to do there, and turned and went somewhere else. His mother's voice still filled his mind, chatting happily away, talking about her visit with obvious delight. Neal glanced to one side and saw the corner he had cleared to make a space for a tree.

His throat suddenly seemed to be choking him. Grabbing his coat and his keys he fled from his abode, slamming the door shut behind him. The empty rooms of the house seemed to taunt him on every side, a whisper in his mind saying over and over again 'Alone, All Alone…'

Neal ran from the house, locking the door with trembling hands.

~`~'~

Neal hadn't been sure of where to go. The snow was falling gently in large, puffy flakes, and the street lamps glowed peacefully in the night. Neal had started to walk, fast and with intent, in the direction of Peter's house, only knowing that he needed someone, anyone, to distract him from his own mind. If he could just hold on a little bit longer, keep his thoughts at bay for just a few more days, he could forget it all and move on. Peter and Elizabeth would fill the air with loud talking and distracting conversation. He just needed to get there.

His feet carried him automatically, moving with a will and a purpose, until he was standing before Peter's door. Through the front window he could see Peter and Elizabeth talking and laughing as they cleared the table from their supper. Peter had the plates in his hand, and Elizabeth the dish that had held the food. As she passed, Peter leaned down and caught her in a kiss, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh and smack him with an oven mitt.

Neal froze, watching the scene within. It looked so warm, so happy in there. Suddenly he wasn't so sure he wanted to go in. His mind warred with itself between a desire to leave the happy couple and not pour his woe on them, and a desperate need for contact. Neal paced back and forth on the front walk, struggling. Then the thought of the empty house that waited for him at home came to mind, and with it a wave of pain so fresh that Neal was at the door and knocking before his rational side had even begun to take back control.

It was a moment before he heard footsteps. Neal almost reconsidered his decision again, but then the door opened, and Peter was staring at him in surprise.

"Neal?"

"Peter." Neal pushed his hands deeper into his coat pockets, frozen in place. It was like his feet had been glued to the top step. He stared, unblinking, into his partner's waiting and confused gaze. "I just wanted– I wanted to– I mean, I needed–" Neal's words were faulty, and he fidgeted uncomfortably, mentally smacking himself for his inability to speak. He tried again, even as he realized that he had no idea what he was trying to say. After a few more attempts he closed his eyes and sighed. If he could have kicked himself, he would have. When he opened his eyes, he saw Peter staring at him, his face softened into an expression of quiet concern. Neal opened his mouth again, but no sound came out. He shrugged helplessly.

Peter nodded in understanding, and fully opened the door. "You want to come in?"

The relief Neal felt must have shown, because the muscles around Peter's eyes tightened slightly in deeper concern, and yet there was also an echo of relief in his own eyes that he had guessed Neal's unspoken plea. 'Please ask me in.'

Nodding, Neal stepped through the door, and heard Peter close it behind him.


	3. A Candle In The Window

The door to the kitchen opened, and Elizabeth stepped out, wiping her hands on a towel. Her look of curiosity changed to a warm smile, and she walked forward with her hands outstretched. "Neal!" she said, wrapping him in a hug.

"Hey, Elizabeth." Neal said, managing a small smile. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too." Elizabeth looked up at him, and beckoned with her hand. "Come on, take off that wet coat. You look like you've been in a blizzard!"

"Yeah, what did you do? Walk the whole way?" Peter asked as Neal allowed Elizabeth to take his coat.

The ex-con glanced up, and he looked embarrassed.

"You did?" Peter stared. "Are you insane? Do you know how cold it is out there?"

Neal shrugged, following Peter into the living room. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

Peter shook his head.

Elizabeth headed for the kitchen, Neal's coat draped over her arm. Before she went through the door she stopped and called over her shoulder, "We were just about to have some dessert, Neal. You want some?"

His stomach rumbled silently, reminding him that he hadn't eaten yet. At the thought of one of Elizabeth's desserts, his eyes perked up. "Yeah." He remembered his manners. "Yes, thank you."

She smiled, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Peter went to the small console that held their wine, and he picked up a glass, raising his eyebrows in a question. When Neal nodded he picked up the already open bottle, and soon the last of the crimson liquid was splashing into the glass goblet. Neal accepted it, and thanked him.

As they settled in the living room, Peter in his overstuffed chair and Neal on the couch, Peter looked over his partner with a critical eye. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, everything's fine." Neal got up and stepped over to the fireplace, seemingly intent on admiring the small figurines on its mantel. "Just, you know, with Mozzie and June gone the house is a little… big."

It had not escaped Peter's notice that Neal was avoiding eye contact. He leaned back into the cushions. "Yeah; lot of rooms."

"Lots of rooms." Neal moved from the mantel to some photos on the wall. "These from your vacation?" He asked.

Peter stood and stepped to Neal's side, nodding, his face lighting up with the memory. "Yep."

"Looks like you had fun."

"Yeah." Peter slid his hands into his pants pockets, trying to look nonchalant. "Yeah. It was good." He felt Neal glance at him, and knew that the observant young man was reading past his façade. So he allowed himself a broad smile, and was rewarded with a chuckle.

"Okay, boys." Elizabeth called. "Dessert's ready."

Rich, moist chocolate cake with orange liqueur frosting awaited them. Neal did not protest the extra large slice she gave him, and as they sat around the dining room table, the conversation turned to humorous anecdotes that had them all laughing. It was nice, seeing Peter here in his family life, relaxed and enjoying himself. The warm looks and twinkling eyes shared between the husband and wife made Neal smile. He loved to watch people interact, and the subtle body language, the looks, the things that were unspoken and shared between the two– it was a treasure trove for any professional observer.

An hour passed, and then they all stood to clear the dishes and the dessert, and another hour was passed in the kitchen the same manner as the first. Elizabeth washed, Peter dried, and Neal watched. His only job, according to Elizabeth, was to put away the dessert and then sit there and look good. He didn't sit; he had too much energy for that, but he did relax and enjoy the company.

The dishes were put away. The lights were turned off or turned down. Elizabeth had gone upstairs for something, and Peter was just returning from letting Satchmo, their dog, out. He found Neal standing in the middle of the darkened living room, the soft, many-colored Christmas lights the only source of illumination. Neal was staring at the tree, his hands in his pockets, his face relaxed and almost expressionless, except for the faint line between his brows, and the heavy sadness in his eyes. When he heard Peter's approach he blinked quickly and looked up.

As Peter came in, Neal could see the concern in his face, and he wondered how long Peter had been watching him. There was an unspoken question in the dark eyes, but Neal wasn't sure he could explain. So he went back to looking at the tree. "Hey."

"Hey." Peter approached cautiously. When he was close he paused, and then followed Neal's stance, and looked at the tree. It really was beautiful. Red and blue and green lights glowed gently, garland and ornaments catching their light, and here and there something sparkled.

"We always put our tree up seven days before Christmas."

Peter looked from the corner of his eye. He was silent.

"We'd have popcorn and hot chocolate, and Mom and Dad would dance. I danced with her, later, after Dad…" Neal's voice trailed off, and he left it. "She had it down, what to do and when to do it. Three days before, she would get up early, and bake cookies all day."

Neal had a soft smile, and Peter felt an answering smile on his own face.

"Christmas Eve we'd attend Church, and she'd make chowder and biscuits for supper. Then she'd set out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk; she insisted on doing it, even when I was eighteen."

Peter chuckled.

"The next morning we'd open our presents, and she'd make a goose, and Christmas Plum Pudding." Neal glanced at Peter. "She was very British." He explained.

The corner of Peter's mouth rose. "She sounds wonderful." He commented.

Neal nodded, and looked back at the tree. "Yeah."

For a moment there was silence. There was such a look of loneliness on his partner's face that Peter finally sighed. "I could find her number for you," He said. "If you'd like."

To his surprise, his offer triggered a short, wry laugh from Neal, who dropped his head and shook it. "No." Neal said, still shaking his head as he turned and walked away. "That's okay."

Peter frowned, confused. He followed Neal to the couch, where the young man sat down and sighed, avoiding Peter's gaze. "Come on." Peter said, also sitting. "Christmas is all about spending time with family."

"Peter,"

His name was said in such a quiet voice that he almost didn't hear it.

"My mom is dead."

Everything seemed to go still. Peter stared at him, and in understanding he began to recognize the subtle signs from the past few days– the restlessness, the moods, the looks. Now a muscle was working in Neal's jaw, and he was staring at his hands as though he could burn a hole through them.

"My mom is dead." He whispered again, as though he were just hearing the news himself. His cheeks began to flush slightly, and he looked up, staring at nothing, blinking rapidly.

Peter didn't know what to do. "Oh, Neal." He said quietly.

The blue eyes glistened, even as Neal began to fidget, his jaw clenching. "Mom's dead." He whispered again, and a trail of moisture suddenly appeared on his cheek. He wiped it away almost angrily, avoiding looking at Peter. Another wet trail appeared, and he wiped it away as well, but there was another, and another, Peter could see Neal's face breaking. With a ragged breath Neal stood and left, barely managing a mumbled "Excuse me" before he was gone.

Peter heard the door to the bathroom close. He shut his eyes, exhaling long and deeply, running a hand through his hair before leaning back into the couch cushions. As he sat there he heard a soft step behind him, and then Elizabeth's hands were on his shoulders. He opened his eyes. Her gentle face was above him, and there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Peter reached up and clasped his wife's hand. She squeezed his gently. Muffled sounds could be faintly heard in the direction of the bathroom, and she flinched.

Peter closed his eyes. "I don't know what to do." He said, blowing out a heavy breath. "I'm no good at this."

Elizabeth wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pressed her cheek to his hair. He heard her sniff, knew she was crying, but her voice was strong when she spoke. "Yes you are."

"No, I'm not."

She rubbed his shoulder. "You're good enough for Neal." She whispered.

He opened his eyes, and looked up at her.

She offered him a small smile, her cheeks glistening in the tree light. "He came here tonight, Peter. He came to you."

Peter stroked her hand, and prayed she was right.

Elizabeth went to find bedding and some pillows. Peter sat and stared at the tree for a while longer, then he stood, and walked to the wine console. Opening the two little doors he studied the contents, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before finally settling on brandy.

Neal walked in as he was pouring the two drinks. Neal approached him slowly, uncertainty in his expression, his eyes lowered. They were still slightly red, and his hair was damp from the cold water he had splashed over his face. Peter glanced up, keeping his posture relaxed and open. He held out the snifter. Neal looked at the glass, and then at him,

"I know it's not your usual drink." Peter said, and he held it out encouragingly. "Thought something a little stronger was in order."

Neal glanced at him again, then accepted the proffered glass. He sat down at the table, taking a deep breath. Peter sat down across from him. The amber liquid shone in the light as he swirled it, slowly.

Peter took a drink, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat. Following suit, Neal lifted his glass. In moments it was empty. He lowered it, swallowed, and released a slow breath. "Thanks." He whispered.

The corner of his mouth lifted, and Peter picked up the bottle and replenished the empty snifter. Then the two men sat in silence. "Neal," he said quietly after a long minute. "I'm so sorry."

Blue eyes lifted to his. "Yeah." Neal rubbed his forehead, and then ran his hand over his hair. "She was supposed to drive down last Friday."

Peter recalled Neal's excitement that day, and his enigmatic statement We go way back. "What happened?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.

A deep breath, a slight cough. "She had a heart attack. A friend of hers was going to watch the cat, and when she stopped by…" Neal paused. He swallowed, and stared at his glass. "She was baking cookies."

Peter rolled his glass between his hands, listening.

They talked quietly for a long time, sharing brandy and stories; most were lighthearted, and some made them laugh till the tears ran. Elizabeth made few appearances, leaving the men to their talk. Peter saw her move about in the background, making a bed on the couch, carrying blankets, books, the dog's water dish– he loved that about her. She knew when to participate, and when to keep herself busy, and she did both things well.

Neal's face was flushed from the drink, his eyes slightly glazed, and Peter was pretty sure he looked the same. Peter had just finished telling a story, and the younger man was laughing hard and deeply. His hair was loose and tousled; currently he was resting his head against his hand, his fingers tangled in his dark locks. "I can't believe you actually did that!"

Peter chuckled, and he raised his eyebrows. "Believe it."

"Peter, you're a rebel!"

"Ah," he pointed a finger at the still-laughing ex-con in mock seriousness. "You repeat that to anybody and I'll take your hat, and I'll wear it!"

The idea only made Neal laugh harder. "I can just see Hughes face, when you walk in wearing my hat!"

Peter had to laugh pretty hard himself.

Neal's laughter faded, and he stared at Peter for a long minute. After refilling their glasses, Peter looked up, and suddenly realized that the blue eyes were glistening with tears.

"I didn't get to see her…" His voice broke on the last word, choking him. He stopped and closed his eyes, two tears escaping and running down his cheeks. He rested his face against his hand, turning slightly away.

Peter glanced down, giving him a moment to regain control. When he looked up, Neal had wiped his hand across his face. He cleared his throat, blinking.

Peter felt his heart break a little. "You okay?" he whispered.

Neal took a deep breath. "No." he breathed. "No, I'm not."

Peter nodded, and glanced from his glass to Neal. "You will be."

Glancing up, Neal stared at him, his gaze betraying his desperate longing to believe Peter's words. He swallowed. "You promise?"

His eyes were dark, and full of reassurance. "I promise."

~`~'~

The next day Elizabeth made a big breakfast, and then she and Peter convinced Neal that putting off the inevitable wasn't going to make it easier. The hospital had to be called. The funeral had to be arranged. A trip was made to June's, where Neal collected some clothes and his dead phone, which Peter immediately plugged in, mumbling something to himself and shaking his head.

Neal sat on the edge of the coffee table, his gaze hollow. "I don't know how I'm going to do this."

"We'll be there." Peter assured him.

"Peter, she's in Westchester. It's outside my two miles."

Peter gave him a look. "Neal," he said slowly. "It's your mom." He paused. "I think Hughes will be okay with this one."

Neal blinked, as though the thought had not occurred to him. He had grown so used to no excuse being good enough that he hadn't thought about it, hadn't even considered the possibility.

"Besides," Peter started moving again, gathering things. "If I'm with you, you can go anywhere you want."

Neal watched him. "You're coming?" he asked quietly.

Peter looked at him, and saw the faint glimmer of relief and appreciation. "You thought I'd let you go alone?" he responded incredulously.

He was rewarded with a smile.


	4. Mama Liked The Roses

Peter called Hughes, and spoke with him for a long time in hushed tones, standing by the window with his back to the room. Neal could not hear what was said, and after a minute or two he began to fidget in his chair. Finally he stood and moved restlessly about, pausing now and then to look at a photo on the wall, and then moving on. Elizabeth sat at the table, Satchmo at her feet, watching the two men.

After an eternal five minutes, Peter lowered his phone, and there was a quiet beep as he ended the call. Neal stopped his pacing and waited. Peter glanced at him. "Hughes offers his condolences." He said quietly. "You have as much time as you need, and I have the rest of the week off."

Neal nodded, releasing a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Now," Peter picked up Neal's phone, and held it out. His look softened in understanding when Neal hesitated, but he did not pull back. "You have to make the call, Neal."

The call was made. The hospital nurse on the other end was relieved to hear from him, and did all she could to give as much information as possible. The funeral home had already been contacted. Everything had already been arranged; the funeral was planned for ten o'clock Thursday morning, December 24. Who had arranged it all? A close friend of his mother; a Mrs. Stought.

She offered her sympathy. He thanked her. The call ended.

Peter regarded him quietly as Neal set his phone down on the table and sighed, dropping his head, his elbows on the table's edge, his hands running through his hair. "Everything alright?" Peter asked.

"Funeral's tomorrow morning, ten o'clock." Came the mumbled reply.

Neal finally lifted his head, and rested his chin on folded hands. His blue eyes were shadowed. His voice was low when his spoke, halting. "Peter…"

The agent nodded. "We'll pack our bags."

~`~'~

The cold wind bit their faces as they walked through Grand Central Station. They boarded the Metro North Train, and were soon on their way to Hartsdale, Westchester. Neal adjusted the strap of the duffel bag, pulling it more securely onto his shoulder, and he stared out of the window. He had not been to Hartsdale in a long time. The last time had been a long distant Easter, when he and Kate had visited his mother and they had attended the Easter Service. His mother had played the piano.

"I wonder how Aunt Miriam is."

He hadn't realized he'd said it out loud until he noticed Peter and Elizabeth looking at him. Peter's brows were pulled into a quizzical frown. "I didn't know you had an aunt." He said.

Neal's mouth lifted into a half smile. "You don't know everything about me." He teased. He was rewarded with an amused snort and a roll of brown eyes. "Miriam's not my real aunt." Neal said. "I called her Aunt Miriam when I was a kid, and it stuck. She and Mom have- were, friends for as long as I can remember." Neal looked out the window again. He didn't mention the twelve messages he had found on his newly charged phone, from that very person. "She loves cats."

~`~'~

Hartsdale was a quiet place, with an older feel. There was not much to draw visitors, but Peter got the sense that it was a good place to live and raise a family. When they left the Station, Neal paused a moment to look around, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Peter surreptitiously looked over his shoulder; it was an address. The heading was 'Poet's Corner'.

"This way." Neal said, hoisting his duffel bag onto his shoulder. He started walking towards a waiting taxi; knowing the transport service in Hartsdale and the impossibility of hailing a cab, Neal had called ahead.

Peter held out his arm to Elizabeth, supporting her down the icy steps. "Where're we going?"

Neal's blue eyes glanced back. "Home."

~`~'~

The houses all had a similar look. The taxi driver dropped them off at a small house on Holmes Avenue; before he left he tipped his cap, and offered Neal his sympathy. He knew Neal's mother, had attended the same Church as her for years. She was a good woman.

As the cab disappeared around the corner, Neal stood on the sidewalk and stared at the house. It was white, with a tan roof, and trees on either side. He glanced to one side, to the grey-shingled house on his right, and the corner of his mouth rose. Slowly he led the way up the front walk to the door of the white house, and there Neal paused and carefully slid his fingers behind the decorative "Welcome" sign. A moment later he pulled out a key.

The first thing Peter noticed when they walked in was that the place smelled like baked goods and flowers. The second was that the home felt like an odd mixture of the modern and the Victorian. They entered the open kitchen, with its spacious cupboards and counters and small breakfast table. A white apron, with its bottom edged in a ruffle, hung from the wall. To the left of the kitchen was the open dining and living area, the two places separated only by the floor– the dining room was hardwood, while the living room had soft grey carpet. Neal dropped his duffel bag, looking around, taking it all in. She was right; other than the size, the new house was almost exactly the same as their old one.

There were only two bedrooms, one that was his mother's, and a very small spare room that had been prepared with his old bed and dresser. His chest twinged. She had been nothing if not sentimental; everything from his old room was there. Pictures from his school days were on the wall, as well as a few paintings of his. There was his bookshelf lined with mysteries, history books, art instruction, and Hardy Boys.

His mother's room was beautiful. There was the white feather down quilt, the decorative pillows, the two, mirrored dressers on either side of the bed. There was her rocking chair, and the blanket his dad had given her, years ago. The walls were lined with photographs, and yes, even some of his paintings. Neal shook his head as he glanced at the portrait of his parents, decently done but with raw talent and very little instruction. Then he found the last photograph ever taken of his parents together. It was their fifteenth Anniversary, and they had saved for two years to take a cruise to the Bahamas. Evelyn was beautiful, in an elegant summer dress with a silk shawl, her blond hair loose and blowing. His father had his arm around her waist, and had his nose against her hair as though he were smelling it; his white shirt was open and un-tucked.

There was a step behind Neal, and he turned slightly. Peter standing behind him. "Your parents?" came the soft inquiry.

"Yeah." Neal gently touched the frame. "Evelyn and Jack."

Peter took another step, bringing him beside Neal, and he studied the photo. "I don't remember finding much about your father."

"No," Neal crossed his arms, widening his stance. "You wouldn't have. His last name wasn't Caffrey."

"Oh?" Peter's interest was piqued. Though information about Neal's childhood had not been important in his investigation years ago, it had always been of interest to him that he couldn't find anything about his father. Not that he had looked too hard.

A small, enigmatic smile was on Neal's face. Peter could see the almost-exact expression on the face of the man in the photo. Neal really did look like him; right down to the dark, wavy hair.

"His name was De Bellis." Neal said. "He was Italian."

"Ah." Peter nodded. "So, why is your name Caffrey? That is not an Italian name."

At the question, the smile faded, and Neal backed up and sat on the edge of the bed. His dark brows pulled together. "He– had a good job. He worked for a top advertising company, so he was always traveling." Another deep breath, a pinched line of thought between the eyes. "He was also a con man."

Peter raised his eyebrows. He was very interested now. He joined Neal, sitting on the bed.

"Nothing quite so spectacular as what you caught me for." Neal continued. "But he was good. He was very good."

"So, is that why you did what you did? Carrying on the family business, so to speak?"

There was a faint shake of the head. "It was the way he talked about it. To hold a true Rembrandt, the canvas in your hands stretched and prepared by the artist himself, looking at the paint that he applied with his own hands–" Neal's eyes took on a distant shine, and Peter understood. The younger man shook his head, breaking the trance. "Anyway, he died in a major accident on his way to the airport. I was twelve. Dad had recently made some enemies, and Mom was worried, so she changed our last name."

"Back to her maiden name?"

"Yeah."

There was silence for a moment. Then Peter straightened, set his hands to his knees, and stood. He was trying to hide a smile. "Well, that at least explains your middle name. Neal Fabrizio Caffrey."

"That was my grandfather's!" Neal called after the chuckling man.

~`~'~

They settled in, and Neal, after being reassured that he did not have to take care of the house immediately, found a box and began to fill it with only those things he wished to take back with him the next day. Some photos, a blanket. He had just brought the box out to the living room and set it beside the couch, when the front door opened, and a small fifty-something woman bundled in wielding an umbrella like a sword, her short hair feathered up, and her eyes wide behind her glasses.

"Neal!" Rushing forward in a flurry of snow, she dropped her weapon and threw her arms around the young man, hugging him tightly.

Neal's face broke into an expression of recognition and delight, and he returned the embrace, closing his eyes. "Aunt Miriam."

"I saw the lights on, and thought someone had broken in!" She pulled away and strained her head back to look up at him. Her hands found his face, patting his cheeks. "I never though it would be you!"

"So you decided to confront the burglar yourself?" Neal chastised.

"Oh, tosh, I was armed."

"With an umbrella."

"You ever been whacked with an umbrella?" she looked over her glasses at him. "I thought not. Oh my goodness, look at you! I swear you've grown. But you're so thin! Doesn't the FBI pay you enough to feed yourself?"

Neal rolled his eyes. "I eat just fine, Aunt Miriam." He said fondly. Then he turned, and before she could begin again he held out his hand. "Aunt Miriam, this is Peter, and his wife, Elizabeth. He's…" his voice trailed off, and he glanced at Peter, hesitating.

Peter held out his hand. "I'm his partner." He said.

Neal stared, then a slow smile crossed his features. Peter winked.

Miriam took Peter's hand and shook it firmly and with enthusiasm. "Oh, you're the FBI Agent! How wonderful to meet you!" She found Elizabeth, and took her hand. "And you! My, you're pretty!" she dropped her voice, and glanced at Peter conspiratorially. "Good catch, young man. Better keep hold of this one."

In the background, Neal covered his eyes.

Elizabeth chuckled. "It's so nice to meet you, Miriam."

"Yes, I only wish it were under better circumstances." The older woman's eyes grew sad. "It was such a shock." Turning, she found Neal again, and clasped his hands in her own. "Oh my dear." She whispered; her eyes glimmered. "I am so sorry. So very, very sorry."

They dined together that night; Elizabeth and Miriam bustled about the kitchen, chatting happily, while the men sat at the table and held their own conversation. Miriam's meatloaf and Elizabeth's carrots and salad were soon brought out, and quickly consumed. Then they moved to the living room, and sat in the glow of the Christmas tree.

Neal sat beside the little woman, and eventually she laid a hand over his. "I hope you don't mind that I planned the funeral." She said, looking up at him. "I tried calling you, but there was so little time…"

He winced; he shouldn't have blown it all off like that. It should have been him planning his mother's funeral, him taking care of things, and he hadn't. "Miriam," he said quietly. "It's fine. I should have been there. I am so sorry I made you do it all." His eyes were wide, and dark with apology and distress and guilt. "I didn't mean to put that on you…"

She shook her head, stopping him. "Hush boy." She dashed at a glimmer on her cheek, and sniffed, and cleared her throat. "I did the best I could; I hope you approve."

Neal glanced back at the papers she had brought over, full of the plans she had made. Large pink roses, her home Church, "The Holly and the Ivy" as the special song. He offered Miriam a small smile, and she relaxed.

"There is a young girl who is going to play, but she's very nervous, I don't think she likes playing for an audience." Her look was questioning.

Neal leaned his head back against the couch. "Yeah," he said. "I could do it."

She sighed with relief. "I didn't know how to ask."

He swallowed, staring at the ceiling. "It was her favorite song." He whispered.

~`~'~

Late that night, when the conversation had waned and people began to doze, Miriam said goodnight and returned to her own home in the grey-shingled house next door. Elizabeth went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, and Peter changed into pajamas in Neal's room, which had been given to them for the night.

As he finished pulling on the warm shirt, the soft strains of a piano suddenly filled the air. Peter paused, listening, wondering if Neal had put on a CD. It was beautiful. Opening the door he stepped out, and peeked around into the living room.

Neal sat at the golden spinet. His hair had partially fallen into his eyes, which were gazing down, their expression soft. His long, slender fingers moved across the great expanse before him, dancing upon the ivory keys, playing the music his mother had taught him long ago.

~`~'~

The next morning dawned cold and bright. They heard Neal moving around, and wondered how long he had been up, if he had even gone to bed at all. Breakfast was ready for them, the coffee brewed, the eggs hot. Neal was full of energy, talking at a rapid pace about everything and anything. They let him.

Soon they were ready. Miriam walked over, dressed in a dark dress suit, and they rode together in her car.

They were early; very early. No one was there but the funeral home director and the pastor. The flowers had already been delivered and set up; bouquets of large pink roses, their scent filling the Church. White tapered candles lined the front. Before all, at the center, was Evelyn. Neal hesitated only a moment. Then he walked forward.

Peter gently took Elizabeth's elbow as she made to follow Neal. At her questioning look he shook his head. Quietly the three of them stepped out of the sanctuary, just outside the door, and Miriam began to talk with the pastor, going over the service. Peter and Elizabeth partially listened, and watched Neal from the corner of their eyes.

Neal felt like his legs were going to buckle the entire way up the aisle, but somehow they stayed faithful and carried him all the way, till he was standing, at last, at his mother's side. She lay in a simple coffin, the wood polished and golden, wearing her favorite pink Sunday outfit, shirt and skirt trimmed in lace,

He stared down at her. She had not changed in four years; she looked the same. Her face was smooth, and peaceful. The funeral home had done a perfect job. Neal stood, unsure of what to do; finally he held out a shaking hand. He touched hers. It was like touching cold stone. He jerked back with a sharp intake of breath; it was not what he had been expecting. She looked so warm and at rest, but the chill still on his fingers spoke otherwise.

She was really gone.

~`~'~

The funeral had been peaceful and warm. Despite the fact that it was the day of Christmas Eve, the attendance had been great; the seats were packed, and some guests had to stand in the back. Most of them knew Neal, and had watched him grow up. Peter was amazed at the number of older friends Neal had, and watched with fascination as they all approached, a couple or a person at a time, to offer their condolences. Neal knew them all by name.

The pastor gave the eulogy; it was well worded, and well given. Neal played the piano for the special song. People sang. Miriam read Evelyn's favorite passage of Scripture, the last two chapters of Revelations. The congregation then moved to Ferncliff Cemetery. The pastor read, and prayed. People were crying. Elizabeth turned her face into Peter's shoulder, and he held her.

It was after the luncheon now. Most of the people had left. The remaining few were in the process of leaving. Peter looked around for Neal, but the young man was nowhere to be found. He asked Elizabeth, and Miriam, but they were no more informed than he. Frowning, he searched the different rooms, and finally he asked the staff of the Elmwood Country Club if they had seen a tall, slender man in a black suit with a pink rose on the lapel. A server nodded, and pointed to the door.

"He was pulling on his coat; I haven't seen him since."

"When was this?" Peter asked, trying to ignore the worry that had settled in his stomach.

"About twenty minutes ago."

Peter thanked her, and hurried outside. Across the parking lot he found a set of tracks in the deep snow; they were headed for the cemetery. Peter returned inside, and as he pulled on his own coat he told Elizabeth where he was going, and assured her they would meet back at Miriam's.

The going was harder than he had expected, at least at the end. Neal had hooked up with Westchester View Lane, which cut a straight line almost to the cemetery, but then the road ended in a cul-de-sac. Peter followed the tracks through someone's back yard, and then through a tall hedge, and finally through the snow that blanketed the entire cemetery. Pausing, Peter put his hands to his knees, and caught his breath. It was far too cold to be walking like this. As he pulled in some much needed oxygen he looked around, searching for any sign of his wayward friend.

There was a dark figure beneath the canopy that still covered the new grave.

Peter approached from behind. Neal was standing as still as a statue, his hands in his pockets, the wind blowing through his hair. He was staring at two gravestones, sitting side by side. Jacopo "Jack" De Bellis. Evelyn Caffrey. Peter slowly took his place beside Neal, and settled himself into a good standing position. For a few minutes there was silence.

"Dad. Mom. Kate." The name was said with a hint of bitter laughter.

Peter glanced at him. Neal looked like he wanted to say more, but he couldn't find the words. Still, Peter understood. The three people who had been in Neal's life, and no longer were.

His eyes were red, staring at his parents' graves. Two fresh tears slid down his cheeks, and Neal took a deep breath, unashamed. "They're both gone."

Peter put his hand on Neal's shoulder.


	5. I'll Be Home For Christmas

Peter clamped his fingers around the edge of the box, arms straining as he tried to keep the two on top balanced; they weren't heavy, but they were awkward. Why did ornament boxes have to be such an odd size? Peering over the top of his load, Peter lifted his foot, and kicked. The banging sound echoed down the hall and empty stairs, but the door didn't budge.

Peter kicked again.

"Coming!" the answer came to him, muffled through the wooden barrier. A moment later the handle turned, and then the door opened. Neal stared at him, his blue eyes wide and confused. "Peter," he said, blinking.

"Yes, it's me." Peter grunted, adjusting his precarious hold. "Would you mind letting me in?"

"Yeah, sure." Neal stepped back and let him through. Peter immediately went for the couch, depositing the boxes with a sigh of relief. Behind him he could hear Neal greeting Elizabeth, and offering to take her coat. As he straightened, Peter noticed a small tree standing in the corner, colored lights twinkling and reflecting from the garland. For a moment his face fell with chagrin, glancing down at the boxes he had just set down, but then he noticed that there were only a scant dozen ornaments on the tree. He relaxed. Turning, Peter saw Neal approaching, his hand outstretched; Peter shrugged off his coat, and gave it up.

"Thanks."

"No problem. What are you doing here? I thought you guys were having Christmas at home." Neal's brows were pulled together in puzzlement.

"Yeah, well," Peter adjusted his sports jacket. "We did. Then lunchtime rolled around, and we thought, you know– June's gone, Mozzie's gone, he's just got a cat– and a cat isn't much company anyhow–" trailing off, Peter had his hands on his hips, trying to look cool and disinterested. Except that Neal was giving him one of those looks; the look that reads every single thing between the lines and figures out what you're trying so hard to keep him from figuring out. Peter shifted. "It was Elizabeth's idea." he said, too quickly.

There was a snort from the kitchenette, where Elizabeth was pulling containers from a paper bag. "Don't believe him, Neal." She called. "All day he kept talking about your Christmas traditions, and how big the house is for just one person…"

Peter narrowed his eyes in her direction, shaking his head when she gave him a sweet look and mouthed a kiss. Meddlesome woman.

Neal lifted his eyebrows. "Peter," he said in awe. "You do care!"

"Shut up."

That earned him a chuckle, and the ex-con left to hang up their coats.

When he returned, Elizabeth had set the table with the food she had brought, still steaming and hot. Peter was in the cupboards, trying to find dishes. Neal hurried over and pointed out the correct cupboard, but when he tried to help Elizabeth shook her head, insisting that they could take care of it. "There, see?" she said a moment later. "Table is set."

He sniffed appreciatively. "It smells good."

"You should have been there while she was cooking." Peter grumbled. "All day, the house smelled of roasting goose…"

Blue eyes glanced at them. "You made a goose?"

She smiled, and her voice was quiet. "Peter said your mom always made a goose on Christmas." She explained. "Your Aunt Miriam gave me the recipe."

For a moment Neal was quiet. He dropped his eyes, as though struggling for control. Elizabeth stared, her expression faltering, until Peter touched her shoulder and gave her a reassuring glance. Then he lifted the bottle of wine from the table, and took a step forward, holding it up. "You got a corkscrew?" he asked. He set the bottle on the counter.

There was a deep breath. "Yeah." Neal said, turning. As he did so he risked a quick glance, a silent thank you, in Peter's direction. The agent nodded.

Neal rummaged through a drawer, and pulled out a corkscrew. "Enjoy your Christmas Eve?" he asked, opening the wine.

"Yes." Peter answered, collecting three glasses and holding them up for Neal to fill. "We had a fire, eggnog, beautiful music… What about you?"

"You know, nothing much." Neal mumbled. Then he realized that he was brushing Peter off, and hurried to make up for it. "After we came home yesterday, I got Holmes settled and… you know, did some things here and there." He set the wine bottle down, and accepted the glass Peter held out to him. They headed to the table, and joined Elizabeth in sitting down. "Miriam came over around four. She brought the tree,"

Peter glanced over. "Ah. Nice."

Nodding, Neal was lost in thought for a moment. Then he snapped back and returned his attention to them, offering a smile. "She made chowder, helped me set up the tree… turned on loud Christmas music."

Peter took the bowl of potatoes and dished himself a hearty portion before passing them on to Neal. He glanced up with a twinkling eye. "You dance?"

"Yeah." Neal didn't make eye contact, but his cheeks colored just a little bit.

Peter narrowed his eyes.

As if sensing Peter's curious gaze Neal glanced up, and he shrugged. "She's a big fan of the jitterbug." He explained.

Elizabeth laughed. "The jitterbug, huh?" She passed the greens and the bread. "I love that dance! Maybe we could turn on some music later."

He couldn't help it; he started to laugh, and shook his head. "It's not really my best."

"Come on," Peter said incredulously. "The great Neal Caffrey, afraid of a dance?"

"Can you do it?" The younger man challenged.

Peter paused, his mind filling with an image of Neal doing the jitterbug Agent Burke-style, and he turned to Elizabeth. "You're right. We should definitely have him show us the jitterbug."

"Hey!" Neal exclaimed. "Thanks for backing me up, partner!"

"Anytime." Peter smiled.

The meal was delicious; when it was over everything was cleared, and then Neal lifted the cover off of a cake tray. Sitting on it was what looked like, to Peter, a lump of brown cake-like something. "Is that the pudding?" he guessed carefully.

Neal nodded, pouring some very expensive brandy over the top of the dessert. "Yep." Setting the bottle aside, he picked up a matchbox. His blue eyes flickered towards them, twinkling. "Watch this."

A moment later, the pudding was covered with blue flame. While it was lit, Neal picked up the tray and carried it to the table, setting it reverently down in the center. Peter watched in fascination; Elizabeth was glowing.

"Wow." She whispered.

After a moment, Neal blew the flame out, and took up a knife and cut three generous slices, topping each with a heavy dollop of whipped cream. Peter was hesitant at first, taking a bite and chewing it slowly. It was not incredibly sweet, but it was very, very rich, with an incredibly dense texture, filled with raisins and the flavor of molasses. His eyebrows rose as he chewed. He nodded. "This is good." He said. "This is very good."

"So this is Christmas pudding." Elizabeth observed, licking whipped cream from her lip with obvious enjoyment. "Wow. A girl could get hooked on this."

His piece was gone far too soon, but Peter reflected that it was so rich he really couldn't have any more. So he helped with the dishes. When the last one had been dried he herded Neal into the living room. "Here," he said. "We brought over some things."

"What?" Neal asked, frowning as Peter pushed his shoulder, moving him forward.

Elizabeth opened two boxes, revealing the contents. They were full of ornaments, still in their packages. "We didn't think you had any." She said.

"You guys, you didn't have to…"

"Don't worry." Peter assured him. "We didn't spend much. They're having great sales today, so we got it all cheap."

Neal tipped his head. His eyes narrowed. "Wow. Thank you." He deadpanned.

Peter rolled his shoulders back, his face full of satisfaction. "No problem."

"I feel so much better."

"Glad to hear it."

Elizabeth shook her head. "You can put the ornaments up whenever you want to." She said, moving two of the boxes to one side. She opened the third one, and pulled out some presents.

Peter sat on the couch, and Neal joined him a moment later, carrying the two presents he had retrieved from beneath his small tree. Elizabeth sat on the other side of Peter, her lap full of bright packages. For a moment no one moved. Elizabeth smiled. Peter shifted. Neal waited.

"Alright, exchange!" Peter finally ordered. For a moment there was a blur of bright paper packages before him as things were passed back and forth, and then they were all opening their presents. Peter first opened the gift from Elizabeth; it was the pair of shoes he had been admiring, to replace his old and scuffed ones. He thanked her, and kissed her cheek, relishing the look of delight on her face that she had done well. Then he opened the next present; Neal had gotten Peter a tie clip, and a pair of snowflake-covered, snowmen socks. Neal felt the look immediately sent his way, and struggled to keep a straight face.

"I found the store." Was all he said. "And I didn't even have to ask El."

Elizabeth pulled out a beautiful, matching set of gloves and a scarf. She oohhed and aahhed appropriately, running her fingers along the soft knit scarf. "Thank you, Neal!" she said, trying on the gloves.

As Neal slowly opened his own present, he suddenly heard a shriek, and looked over to see Elizabeth hugging Peter. A necklace of chocolate diamonds was clutched in her hand. Neal grinned, and quickly went back to his own gift, giving the couple their moment. From the corner of his eye he saw the embrace finally end, and Peter leaned back into the cushions, a very self-satisfied expression on his face. Well done, partner. Neal thought. As the wrapping paper came free in his fingers he found a box, taped all the way around with packing tape. Layers, and layers, and layers of packing tape.

Peter glanced over, feeling twin daggers shooting his direction. He was met with blue eyes staring at him in frustrated exasperation. "There a problem?" he asked innocently.

Elizabeth glanced over, and immediately shook her head, pressing a hand to her mouth. It was an awful thing to do, she mentally chastised Peter; but… the look on Neal's face!

"You wrapped this, didn't you?" Neal accused.

Peter tipped his head. "Well… Elizabeth was very busy making the goose…"

Narrowing his eyes, Neal pressed his lips together, and began to rise from the couch, intent on finding a knife. A hand on his arm stopped him, and Peter, openly chuckling, handed him a small pocketknife. "Here." The agent laughed.

The tape was cut quickly, the knife returned to its owner, and the box lid lifted off. There, nestled in tissue paper, was a beautiful grey fedora with a satin band. Neal grinned, carefully lifting it from the box. "Wow!" he said, gazing at it. "That is nice. Thank you."

Peter settled back, feeling very satisfied. "Elizabeth picked it out." He admitted.

"It was his idea." Elizabeth countered. She laid her head against Peter's shoulder, watching as Neal twirled the hat in his hands and set it on his head, tilting it over one eye roguishly. He lifted his chin so he could see, and laughed.

"Hey Holmes, how do I look?" he asked the grey cat, who was sleeping under the Christmas tree.

There was a slow, green-eyed blink, and a large yawn.

~`~'~

It was late when Peter and Elizabeth left. Neal closed the door after them, and locked it, then returned to his own rooms and closed and locked that door. He sighed, a contented sigh, and sent up a little prayer of thanks before turning and venturing further into his abode. Snow was beginning to fall; the radio was on, Dean Martin's voice filling the air. The hat was on the table, and he picked it up and twirled it around, then in a smooth movement he suavely laid it back on his hair, humming along with the song. A smile touched his mouth when a memory came, unbidden, of his parents singing along to this very song, acting silly just to make their little boy laugh.

Beneath the tree was a final present. Tucked back, away from sharp eyes and questions. There was a part of him reluctant to open it, whether in a desire to preserve it as a cherished piece of memorabilia or because he didn't have the courage to, Neal could not tell. He had found it, waiting beneath his mother's Christmas tree, and brought it home with him.

He picked it up, holding it carefully in his hands. It was square; boxed up, so he couldn't guess what it was by feel. Neal sat down slowly, fingering the holly paper; and then he tore it. The box soon lay in his lap, brown and unassuming. His lips pressed together; for a moment his resolve faltered. There was no way to return it to its wrapping; so he opened the lid. His throat tightened, and his eyes grew warm. He took a deep breath. Resting in the soft paper straw was a beautiful black painter's journal, its pages crisp and pure white. Beside it lay a bottle of Bordeaux. A full bottle. Unopened.

Taking a deep breath, Neal lifted the card that was tucked beneath it. Inside was a handwritten letter full of a mother's love and warmth, her wishes, her praise, her uncontainable pride. Something swelled in his chest, both warm and heart-rending at the same time.

Below her flowing signature, was a post-script. It was simple, but said everything he needed to hear.

'You made it.'

~`~'~

The grey-striped cat raised his head and peered up, blinking his pale green eyes, weary and curious as to what had disturbed his sleep. It was nothing more than the sound of snow against the tall windows. Large, heavy flakes fell against the glass, their wet, pattering sound rhythmic and soothing. Shifting on the soft cushion, Holmes yawned, his pink mouth gaping wide, and then he licked his lips, sleep already causing his eyelids to droop. A large, slender hand descended, and he felt the comforting weight on his back, stroking his fur. Holmes purred in contentment. He did not know why he had been moved to yet another strange dwelling, and this place was as mouse-free as the last, but beside him was the comforting scent of a well-known, well-loved member of his family. With a sigh, Holmes turned and tucked his chin on the warm leg. One of his paws curled up, stroking the leg in the same manner as the large hand stroked his fur.

Happy and content, Holmes closed his eyes, and fell asleep once more.


End file.
